


More Than I Should

by LoversAntiquities



Series: Codas [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Coda, Dubious Consent, Episode: s09e21 King of the Damned, M/M, Mark of Cain, No Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-23 23:20:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1583096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam stared cockeyed, taken aback by the suggestion. The implications were there, plain as day. “So you want him to… drink your blood?”</p><p>A 9x21 Coda</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than I Should

They were worried about him –they had no right to be. After all, he fulfilled his end of the bargain, right? _He_ took out Abaddon, _he_ made sure Hell’s queen-elect never saw the light of day again. So he _maybe_ enjoyed it a bit too much –what was the harm in that? Killing things that needed killing; she certainly deserved it, after all. She put a price on his head. Was he supposed to take that lying down? _No_.

So it was done. Sam was _still_ looking at him like he had something contagious even after two days, and refused to venture in his vicinity unless absolutely necessary. Most of his time was spent in the library – Dean stayed in locked in his room, drowning his nerves in whatever whiskey he could down, in whatever came up on this mp3 player. Neither were doing it for him –everything centered into an uneasy calm, a volatile peace that threatened to erupt into massacre at every waking second. Sleep afforded no solace. He hadn’t eaten in days.

Was that what it felt like, to be on the cusp of death, never knowing when he would topple over the edge? To have the sheer knowledge that he could very well end the lives of everyone around him with a flick of the wrist? Christ, was this how _Sammy_ felt, all those years ago? The physiological bloodlust compelling him to commit atrocities he never would’ve imagined? Whatever it was, whatever was possessing him, he couldn't escape. Nothing could ease the ache, rip the willing burden from his bones and strip him bare.

It was never going to _end_. He was stuck in a constant loop, going through the motions. And he _liked it_.

Castiel appeared to him on the third day of his self-imposed exile, closing his bedroom door behind him without making a single noise. It was nearly reminiscent of their sordid past – _nearly_ , being the key word. The poor bastard lost his wings, the blame once again pushed onto his shoulders. Because when was it ever not his fault for corrupting the guy? Never. _Never_.

He ignored the sound of his name being spoken, electing to roll over onto his side and face away from the Angel. He couldn't stand to look at him anymore. Not after what he had done. His own mission was done –Castiel had other places to be, other Angels needed his undivided attention. Why he had decided to waltz in was completely beyond his imagination.

The bed dipped. A warm hand came to rest over his right earphone, casually pulling it –and the entire contraption—from his head to rest on the sheets. Dean let him take the music player, shutting off whatever song was playing; he didn't recall what it was anymore, everything blended into one constant drone of noise. It only served as a distraction. There was no joy in music anymore, no thrill in alcohol. Even the touch provided to his forehead, soft, chaste, even, gave him no calm. It was more of an annoyance, than anything.

Palm pressed to his newly marked arm, Castiel pushed him onto his back, legs tucked underneath him as he sat nearest his head. Concern and maybe a tinge of empathy ingrained their way into his face, brows furrowed into deep ravines across his forehead. If he didn't know better, he would have suspected he was trying to find his soul. It was a tarnished thing, anyway, darkened by death and spite. What was there to look at?

“I’ve consulted with your brother,” and Dean had to roll his eyes at _that_. What did Sam have to do with this? With _anything_? “If you’re willing, I would like to try something.”

Dean just _scowled_. “Whatever you wanna do, it won’t work. You’re wastin’ your time, man.”

Castiel cocked his head, practically glaring daggers. “Do you trust me?” The look Dean shot him should have answered that question, but the Angel persisted, a palm pressed over the searing brand on the inside of his arm, tendrils of what was probably supposed to be pain shooting through his arm. Whatever it was, he couldn't feel it. “Yes or no, Dean. Do you _trust_ me?”

With weary, sleepless eyes, he forced a nod. “…Yeah, Cas.”

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

“I may have a way to cure him, at least temporarily,” he informed Sam, pale fingers tracing the cracking spine of one of the library’s books, attention elsewhere. “I could attempt it if you think it would work.”

Looking up from the stash of scattered papers spread out before him, Sam eyed him, desperation in his eyes. “Yeah, anything, Cas. What were you thinking?”

“The only reason I’m coming to you is because you might have some… qualms, about what I’m likely to attempt.” Castiel crossed the room to sit across from him, hands clasped atop the table. “Just as Demonic blood is able to affect humans, an Angel’s blood may… _theoretically_ provide the same properties. Except in the opposite manner, I suspect. It’s never been attempted, but now would be a perfect opportunity to find out. But it would only be for a brief time. He’ll return to his new ‘normal’ minutes after the effects wear off.”

Sam stared cockeyed, taken aback by the suggestion. The implications were there, plain as day. “So you want him to… drink _your_ blood?”

He nodded. “It would be enough to take the edge off, in a manner of speaking. It could possibly make him lucid enough to understand what exactly is going on, and help us all to find a solution. It wont be as… _addicting_ , for certain.”

“And you’re _certain_ this’ll work?” They were running out of options –it was the only thing Castiel could think of that might _possibly_ work. If they let it go on any longer, if he continued on his streak now that Abaddon had been vanquished, there might be no way to stop him. Slowing the process of the Mark was their only chance. They both knew the consequences that were to follow if they didn't intervene. The evidence there in the dark bags under Sam’s eyes. He hadn’t been sleeping. He was worried.

They _both_ were. “It’s our only chance, Sam. I want him safe just as much as you do.”

With that, Sam sat back and lowered his head. “Do whatever you have to,” he sighed. “I just want my brother back.”

Castiel stood to round the table and, with a hand of Sam’s shoulder, squeezed lightly. “I know.”

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

So it started out slow. With a knife pressed tentatively to his lip, Dean watched Castiel split the skin, scarlet dripping from the wound and down his chin. Every bit of skin the blood touched, he took his time lapping it away, tongue trailing up his throat with every new rush until the taste went from bitter copper to electricity singing through his veins. The Angel had no intentions of stopping the bleeding, content to sit his stillest atop Dean’s bed, hands balled in his lap while he _fed_ off him, lips occasionally worrying the wound between kisses to draw more to the surface.

It wasn't supposed to be like this, he mused offhandedly while shoving Castiel into the pillows. It was supposed to be gentler, with more feeling –this was carnal. He found himself wanting to burrow closer, deeper, to get nearer to the core whether it killed him or not. And Castiel went willingly, allowing his hands to graze over bare arms, nails drawing thin, reddened lines alongside veins, all with no protest. It wasn't natural, watching him just _submit_ like that. He was allowing himself to be _used_ – if he was in a better mindset, he would’ve stopped.

But he couldn't –he continued with the process, little of which had been explained beforehand. All Castiel had done was show him a small, silver-tipped knife and told him to _drink him_. Which could have been taken one of two ways. He went for the more obvious, and the Angel shucked all clothing from the waist up to allow him to do whatever he wished.

Which right then, was cutting a small incision into the bend of his neck and sucking hard enough to leave a bruise, if Castiel willed it to stay afterwards. He figured he would, just to have a reminder of what he had gotten himself into. Blood flowed freely between his lips, his own breathy moans escaping his throat with every lick, every rough touch he gave. One hand on the small blade, the other splayed over Castiel’s chest, his heart thumping heavily against his palm. Should it have been doing that in the first place? He’d ask later –he had other things to attend to.

Castiel hooked an arm around his neck and clutched roughly at his shirt at a particularly painful nip to his throat, choking back whatever feelings he was being subjected to. The fingers of his other hand, he came to notice, took hold of his belt loops in a _weird_ attempt to pull him closer. What, was he getting off on his? Or did he just have a weird penchant for being bitten? Either way, he moved on to leave another cut, larger this time, along the underside of his jaw, tonguing the wound as Castiel turned to rest his head in the pillows.

Another bite, this time for fun, and the Angel _whimpered_ , body convulsing in the half-hold he was in. “Tell me to stop, Cas,” Dean whispered, nipping the incision before licking a wet trail to his lips, placing a soft kiss to his chin, cheeks, before ending at his lips. Running his tongue over his own, he tasted the smears of red there, the proof lingering visibly –Castiel eyed him in sympathy, eyes hooded, breath coming out in harsh pants. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

“You _need_ this,” Castiel swallowed, urging him to continue by baring his skin. “I need you to do this. For me.”

He complied –with a long line over where his heart rested, Dean lapped scarlet and swallowed it down, tongue occasionally swiping over his nipple, just to see what would happen. He watched as he sucked it to a peak –Castiel, eyes closed, chewed his lip and fidgeted, their knees touching with every movement. Such human gestures. One hand dragged to the front of the Angel’s slacks, palming over the obvious heat there. _That_ was his answer. “You _are_ getting off on this, aren’t you?”

“ _Finish_ ,” Castiel ordered him. “You’re almost there.”

There _where_? was the question. What was his real intent behind this? Just wandering in and offering him up to such primal matters? Ever so slowly with every pass of his lips, his tongue, he came to a steady understanding –that this was for his benefit. The blood was _doing_ something to him, something he wasn't quite aware of.

Until he looked down at the prostrate body before him and _shuddered_. The numbness in his extremities forgotten, Dean backed away and desperately tried to wipe at his mouth, tossing the bloodstained knife to the floor. Red marred his hands and the skin he had touched oh so willingly, broken beneath his fingertips.

In his litany of apologies, Castiel sat up and, speaking his name over his words, took him by the shoulders and pulled him into his arms. An awkward hug at that angle, but one nonetheless. Bare skin to clothed, Dean buried his face in the Angel’s neck, the bruising bites blurred by emotion threatening to overflow. For the first time in weeks, he _felt_. _Everything_. He embraced Castiel in return, sinking his nails into the skin between his shoulders, needing to feel. Needing this to be _real_. “You gotta help me, Cas,” he whimpered, shaking from shock. “You gotta get this thing offa me!”

“We’re trying, Dean,” he soothed, one hand carding through his hair, the other rubbing circles into the small of his back. “You have to let us help you. You have to listen to us and not push us away, do you understand?” Dean nodded enthusiastically against him, letting out a whine with each individual touch. The softness of it all left his heart wanting to burst.

Something was _wrong_ , he finally admitted. “Sorry, ’m sorry,” he repeated between sobs, Castiel shushing him along the way. “My fault, all my fault.”

“It’s not your fault,” Castiel hushed with the swipe of his fingers down his spine.

In his own misery, he didn't hear the door open to their left, nor feel the bed dip behind him. A warm hand came to rest on his neck, another arm snaking its way around the now-three of them and drawing them into an imperfect circle. Because when were they ever perfect, anyway? “We’re here for you,” he heard Sam say, his brother’s forehead pressed into his shoulder. “We’re both here.”

Tentatively, he felt a press of lips to his cheek; Castiel was watching him through those stupidly blue eyes, thumb wiping away the stray tears from his eyes. Another kiss to his lips –more fell, out of anguish and longing. Hopelessness and understanding. “We’re here,” the Angel breathed into him through a kiss.

“ _We’re here_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song "More than I Should" by Hunter Hayes.
> 
> This was originally supposed to be smutty but somewhere along the way I got lost so it turned really sentimental. Deaaaaaaan.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
